“Not really. I’ll be the gofer. It’ll be me down the do-it-yourself shops buying stuff, making his sandwiches, keeping the place tidy, that sort of thing.”
“I wish you luck. It’s hard work I believe, but a popular undertaking these days. Always providing folk have the money.”
“We’ve saved for most of our lives. But it’s no good stashing money in the bank the way things are, is it?”
“So when do you want to go?”
“Today, after I’ve finished, if that’s alright with you. I’ll stick the key through the letterbox when I’ve locked up.”
Greco nodded. “I’ll pop round later with your wages. Thanks for all the time you’ve put in.” He smiled at her.
“You’re a treat to work for. You’ve been no trouble at all,” she said, making her way into the kitchen. “I wish all my people had been like you.”
Greco walked out to his car. Perhaps he should take Mrs Hope’s leaving as a sign. Use it as the excuse he was looking for to ditch the flat once and for all and move in properly with Suzy. He’d give it some thought and talk it over with her later. In the meantime he had the case to think about.
The body of that poor girl was one of the most awful sights he’d ever witnessed. The killer had taken his time, inflicted intense pain and made her suffer until the very end. Was it personal? Did he have a private vendetta? Or, more terrifying, was it the beginning of a new nightmare for the town of Oldston? If this was the case, would his team even be allowed to get involved? Greco knew that moves were afoot to set up a ‘Major Incident Team’ to cover all serious crime committed in the Oldston, Leesworth and nearby Daneside areas. This team would be made up of CID officers handpicked from within the local stations along with others recruited from outside.
Greco didn’t know any of the officers at Daneside, but he did know the people at Leesworth. DC Rockliffe had been offered a place on the new MIT but had already refused. DI Calladine would more than likely be considered too old. As for his own people — DC Grace Harper perhaps? She was good, and had showed promise during the last case they’d worked on. He couldn’t see Quickenden being offered a place. He was too work-shy. Then there was him of course. But was that the way he wanted to go? And if he did, who would head up the MIT? He pulled into the car park at the Duggan Centre. His phone rang. It was DCI Colin Green from the station. This would be it — the final word on whether he was in or out of the case.
“Stephen,” began Green. “I’ve seen the preliminary report. It’s a bad one. Whoever did this needs catching fast, but we’ve got a problem. The new team we discussed is still a work in progress. This happened on our patch, so I’m afraid Oldston station has drawn the short straw. And that means you.”
So there it was. His team was on its own once again.
“I did wonder whether or not the new squad would get it.”
“We’re no nearer than we were three months ago, when it was first mooted. Too few officers of the right calibre, and even fewer resources. However, there is help if you need it. Daneside have offered someone. Leesworth are already an officer down, so no joy there, but you must make full use of uniform. Get them to do the legwork. We have some good people, Stephen.”
Trouble was, Greco could count those good people on the fingers of one hand. “Who’s on the cards from Daneside?”
“A Sergeant Seddon. Good record, looking for promotion, sounds promising. I’ll sort it.”
“We should wait until we know what we’re up against.”
“Don’t be coy about accepting the help, Stephen. We need this sorting quickly. We’ve already got the press outside the station, and they’re baying for blood.”
“They were quick off the mark. It’s only been a few hours.”
“Someone on that street rang them. Which means they’ll have already sold what they know for a fat fee, and have no doubt been promised more if they keep their eyes peeled,” Green said bitterly. “Since you will be going back there to interview the neighbours, be careful what is said. I don’t mean you particularly, but the other members of your team.”
“I understand, sir,” Greco replied. “If this Sergeant Seddon is keen to join us, that’s fine with me. I’m at the Duggan now. Quickenden and I will observe the PM then get back to the station.”
But Quickenden was nowhere to be seen and his vehicle wasn’t in the car park. He should be inside with the relatives, helping them through the identification of the body. So what had happened?
Chapter 2
Jed Quickenden took one look at the address and groaned. Why did it have to be here? Why him? The spring sunshine did nothing to make the Link Road estate look better. It was a depressing, downtrodden place that the council, and even the law, chose to ignore as much as possible.
But it was more than that for Quickenden. Ever since Grady Gibbs’s death he’d been avoiding the area. People blamed him. Of course they knew Quickenden hadn’t wielded the knife himself, and most folk hadn’t liked Gibbs much either. But Gibbs had been one of their own, and Quickenden was now very much on the other side.
He parked his car on a stretch of open ground and stared up at the tower block. Jessie Weston had lived on the twelfth floor with her mother Mavis and a younger brother. He knew the lift only went as far as the sixth. “I’ll go up and get her,” he told the uniformed officer who’d accompanied him.
He hauled his lanky frame step by step up the last six flights, gasping. He was seriously out of condition. Too many fags, too much booze and precious little in the way of exercise took its toll no matter how young you were. If he wanted to keep this job he’d have to try harder. But was he up to it? Greco had marked his card and was watching him like a hawk. It had got so bad Quickenden was rapidly getting sick of the whole police thing. If he could find some other way of earning a living, he’d get out.
Panting, the DS banged on the front door of flat 1207. No answer. He tried peering through the window but it was caked with dirt.
“Get lost!” a male voice shouted from inside.
“Police!” Quickenden bawled back. He was in no mood for a protracted argument.
“We ain’t done nowt, so sling yer hook!” An empty beer can struck the inside of the window.
“It’s about Jessie!” Quickenden shouted back. “I need to see her mother.”
“What’s the stupid cow done now?” Finally a dishevelled youth came to the door.
“Is Mavis Weston in?”
“No, she ain’t come home in a while. I ain’t got a clue where she’s gone.”
Now Quickenden had a problem. He needed a close relative to identify Jessie. Would this one do? “Can’t you ring her? It is important.”
“She don’t answer.”
“Who are you?”
“Jonathan Weston, Jessie’s brother.”
“How old are you, son?”
The young man was tall, slight and scruffily dressed. He looked about sixteen.
“Nineteen. Why? What d’you think I’ve done?”
“Nothing, Jonathan. This is about Jessie. Look, there’s no easy way to say this . . .” Quickenden could tell the lad was losing interest. He kept looking back towards the TV and the football match he’d been watching. “I’m afraid Jessie’s dead. She’s been killed.”
Someone scored a goal. The lad grunted. “You’re kidding me. You don’t expect me to believe that.”
“It’s the truth.”
“What happened?”
He didn’t seem much surprised.
“It’s a murder enquiry, so I can’t say much.”
“Murder? Our Jessie? Got that one wrong, mate. Jessie will be working about now, down at the Crown.”
“No, Jonathan, she isn’t. In fact, that’s why I’m here . . . I want you to come with me and identify her body.”
“Why bother? You seem to know who you’ve got.”
“It has to be done formally by a relative, someone who knew her well. Why not get your coat and come with me. I’ve g
ot a car down there and an officer will bring you right back.”
“You’re not having me on, are you?”
“No. I wish I was. Your sister has been killed. It’s no joke, and we are searching for her murderer.”
Jonathan Weston grabbed a coat off a hook behind the door and stepped out onto the deck. He looked at Quickenden. “Won’t throw up, will I? Never seen a dead body before.”
* * *
The post-mortem room had never held any fears for Greco. He liked the clinical cleanliness of the gleaming stainless steel and the white floors. They were somehow comforting. He stood on a raised platform only five feet from where Natasha Barrington would perform her art.
Jessie Weston’s body was laid out on a table, covered in a white sheet. He shuddered. She was so young, too young to have had her life so brutally snatched from her. A long list of questions swirled in Greco’s mind and he tried to order them. First, he had to determine the motive.
Natasha Barrington smiled and waved at him as she and her assistants entered the room.
“Alone, I see,” she said. “Your sergeant got cold feet again?”
Greco didn’t reply. Quickenden had gained a reputation. He had been warned about his conduct during the last big case they’d worked on. Greco didn’t want to be on his back again.
“She’d been dead about ten hours when she was found. So I’d put time of death at one this morning.” Natasha removed the sheet and reached for a microphone.
Greco wondered where had she been until that time on a week night.
“We have the body of a female, one Jessie Weston. Her brother gave her age as twenty-six. She’s of slim build and otherwise healthy.” She leaned over to examine the body more closely. “There are a number of injuries on the upper torso and the face.” She stood to one side, making way for the photographer. “Most of these are burns. To the face, chest and arms. The right nipple has been completely burned away.”
Greco felt sick.
“There are what appear to be knife cuts to the body, on both thighs and the belly. She has several much deeper lacerations to the face and scalp. The scalp wounds will have bled profusely. They are deep and long.”
She parted Jessie’s hair carefully, to look more closely. The camera flashed.
“A piece of scalp is missing with hair attached, about two inches in diameter. The shape is precise. The cut was made very neatly, possibly with a scalpel. There are cuts to the face, particularly to the mouth. At each corner the blade has cut deep into the cheek and upwards towards the earlobe.”
Greco looked down at his feet. Why do that? He pictured the killer insisting she smile, and when she didn’t, or couldn’t, he’d cut one into her face.
“The main wound on the torso is to the chest, at the site of the heart. It’s deep and long but this isn’t what killed her. The cause of death was the burning that occurred after the chest wall was cut into. It looks to me as if the cutting was to gain access.”
“Bloody lunatic,” Quickenden said, finally putting in an appearance.
“There is evidence of rape,” Doctor Barrington continued. “There is extensive vaginal bruising, though I can’t see any semen present.”
“So he used a condom? Thoughtful of him,” Quickenden said, shuffling from one foot to the other. Greco had noticed it was something he did when he was anxious.
“It would appear so. I’ll take swabs to make sure. I’ll be doing toxicology tests as well.”
“Tortured and killed.” Greco inhaled. “He took his time with her.”
“It looks that way,” the pathologist said.
Doctor Barrington took a scalpel and made the customary incision lengthways down the body. Her assistant held out a bowl.
Greco looked away.
“Her heart is extensively damaged. Access to the heart was made by a sharp blade. It entered the chest wall between the ribs. Your killer knew what he was doing. After the incision a long, thin object that had first been heated to a high temperature, was pushed deep into the heart muscle.”
“The poker we found?” Greco asked.
“There is what looks like soot residue. Tests will confirm,” the pathologist said. She was holding Jessie’s heart in her hands. “The burning extends through the heart muscle and into the right ventricle.”
“It’s an odd way to kill someone,” Greco said.
“Who knows what goes on in these people’s heads, Inspector.”
“About before, sir, not being here. It couldn’t be helped,” Quickenden interrupted.
“Later, Sergeant,” Greco barked.
“That’s about it,” Natasha said. She looked up.
“I’ll get everything processed and on the system as soon as,” added one of the assistants. He was removing the hood of his coverall.
“You met Mark at the house,” the pathologist said. “He and Roxy are the latest additions to the team here.”
He nodded at the detectives.
The forensic scientist, Doctor Roxy Atkins, came up to Greco and Quickenden. She was young and petite. Her dark hair was cut short but a long fringe covered her forehead. She wore dark red lipstick and heavy black eyeliner. This, and her pale complexion, made her look slightly gothy.
“Like I said at the scene, her clothes were cut from her body. Also, a square of fabric has been neatly cut from her skirt. It’s about two inches, the same as the cut on her scalp. It could be that your killer is collecting trophies,” Atkins said.
Greco said nothing for a few seconds. He was hoping this wasn’t the case, because it meant that they probably had a serial killer on their hands.
“Thank you. Useful information,” he said.
Chapter 3
The main office was crowded. Greco’s people were there — Grace, Jed Quickenden and DC Craig Merrick, and a couple of uniformed officers. DCI Colin Green and DI Westbury, who led the other team at the station, were also present.
Greco stood by the incident board. He pinned up the photo of Jessie Weston and wrote some notes. “You all know why we’re here,” he began. He looked round the room. He wished they would all sit down. It would have made the room look neater. Most were holding mugs of tea or coffee. Cups littered the desks. The untidiness of the room was disturbing his concentration. He had to get a grip on himself.
“Sir!” Quickenden approached the board. “It really wasn’t my fault that I was late for the PM.”
“Now isn’t the time, Sergeant,” Greco told him.
“It was the lad, Jonathan Weston,” he continued. “He went to pieces. He was okay when I went to the flat, weirdly okay in fact, but when he saw her . . .” Quickenden shook his head. “It was like something took him over. It was all me and the uniform could do to hold him down.”
“So what happened?” Greco asked, interested despite himself.
“He identified her, then he started to trash the place. He threw a chair across the room and attacked the mortuary attendant.”
“You calmed him down though?”
“The Duggan security people took over. I had to leave them to it. I gave the PC the job of taking him home and came to join you.”
“Sir!” DC Grace Harper interrupted. “I knew her.”
“You knew the victim, Jessie Weston? Are you sure?”
“Yes, but I haven’t spoken to her in a while. She wasn’t one of my close friends or anything. We’re the same age, both brought up on the Link. We used to go to the same school, Oldston Comp. If I saw her in a pub or round the town, we’d speak, have a quick update, but that’s all.”
“When did you last speak to her?”
“It’s got to be last summer,” Grace Harper replied. “She was in the park when I was there with Holly. But I do know that in recent times she had a boyfriend.”
“That could be the young man in the photo.” Greco tapped it. “Do you want to give us a quick background report? It would be useful.”
Of the three of them — she, Quickenden and Merrick, Grace was the
brightest. She was also the most ambitious. She was held back because she was a single parent, with all the childcare problems that came along with it. Greco had come to appreciate her situation in recent times.
He rapped on the desk in front of him.
“You all know what’s happened,” he began. “The PM report, bar toxicology, will be on the system later today.” He looked at Georgina Booth, the station’s information officer, known to everyone as George. “You will all liaise with Georgina with regard to HOLMES. Each of you will enter everything you get individually, and George will produce consolidated reports on a daily basis. Are you okay with that?”
George nodded.
“For the duration of the case, Georgina will be assigned exclusively to your team,” DCI Green said.
That was something at least. George was good at what she did, but usually she was shared between the different teams. It was more cost-cutting that Greco didn’t approve of. He knew she would appreciate having a larger role in the investigation.
“It’s important that we all get acquainted with Jessie Weston’s world quickly,” Greco told them. “Grace knew her, so she will give us the benefit of a background briefing.” He smiled at the DC, and moved aside. She was wearing her long blonde hair loose today. It softened her appearance and bobbed on her shoulders as she walked. Grace Harper was still only in her twenties, but her life had been hard. It showed in her face. Scraping her long hair back into a ponytail, the way she usually wore it, did little for her.
“I didn’t know her well, not recently. It was more a school thing. Jessie came from a difficult family. Like most folk on the Link, the Westons had little money and the kids’ father did a runner early on. Mark, her brother, has been in bother numerous times for shoplifting and burglary. He’s not all there,” she said, looking at Speedy, “which was why he’ll have kicked off at the mortuary. Mavis Weston, their mother, is something else though. She’s a real force to be reckoned with. Back in the day, all the kids on the Link were terrified of her, me included. But she did love her own kids, and neither of them has left home yet. Jessie’s had lots of jobs, but recently she worked at the Crown Inn. I’ve seen her there a couple of times. She did a few night shifts and all the lunchtimes. People liked her, she was a good laugh.”
DARK HOUSES a gripping detective thriller full of suspense Page 2
